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9.42 pm Metro

Tuesday, I wait for the train.
I stare into the tunnel,
expecting the light to curl in from the left.
It never does. Like most things lately,
I get the direction wrong.

Saturday felt right for five minutes.
A decision dressed up as courage
because someone clapped for it.
I let myself believe that applause
was truth.
It wasn’t. It was me begging for reassurance and 
calling it bravery so I could sleep.

Closure I pretend I want it.
But the part of me that feeds on “what if” keeps the door open,
just enough for hope or delusion to slip through.

My heart is full of unsent sentences.
My throat is clogged with things
I will never say out loud.
My mind has replayed Sunday
so many times, it’s losing colour.

Sunday told me, clearly, that I am not important.
Monday repeated it, as if I needed confirmation.

Still, here I am, waiting in this tunnel
for a light that isn’t meant for me,
even though everything outside
is bright enough to walk away.

Maybe I keep the tiniest crack open
not for love, not for healing,
but for the chance that someone
anyone might cheer for me again,
just long enough to forget
how easily I mistake noise for affection.

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